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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28242681">Only Human</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricshoebox/pseuds/electricshoebox'>electricshoebox</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>A Line in the Sand Series [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst and Humor, Established Relationship, Ghosts, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Miscommunication, Nuka-World Amusement Park (Fallout), wound care</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 01:27:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,486</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28242681</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricshoebox/pseuds/electricshoebox</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It should have been an easy day. This is the last trip to Nuka World Anthony and Preston are dragging them on for a while, at least until the snow lets up. Stupid time of year to be snowing, anyway. It never snowed in April back in the Capital Wasteland.</i>
</p><p>  <i>It’s been quiet, for the most part, now that the raiders are gone. ...Since then, it’s been the occasional mirelurk wandering up from the river, or a dog pack scrounging around the trash cans at the old bus stops. Maybe a feral ambling out from some corner of the kiddie land they hadn’t quite cleared out, just to spice things up. Easy things, all in all. Things they can pick off from a distance. Things that make sense.</i></p><p>
  <i>He’s not ready to add ghosts to the list.</i>
</p><p>MacCready's not a fan of the Grandchester Mystery Mansion. (Takes place in the ALITS universe, but can be read independently.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Deacon/Robert Joseph MacCready, Minor or Background Relationship(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>A Line in the Sand Series [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1931980</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>39</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Only Human</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/adventuresofmeghatron/gifts">adventuresofmeghatron</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Happy happy birthday, Megh. We talked a long while back about how MacCready might react to being dragged through the Mystery Mansion and I set out to write something light-hearted about it. And then I thought too hard about MacCready seeing a child ghost. So, not exactly the light-hearted romp I was aiming for, but I hope you enjoy it anyway. </p><p>This technically takes place in the somewhat-near future of A Line in the Sand and its forthcoming sequel, but all you really need to know is that Deacon and MacCready are together, and I took some liberties with how they and the Sole Survivor cleared out Nuka World. </p><p>Warnings: graphic description of a leg injury (if you need to skip the most detailed part, skip the paragraph that starts "MacCready looks down" and keep reading at the next paragraph), non-graphic discussion of stitching a wound (not actually depicted), brief mention of canon-typical needles (stimpak use) at the end.</p><p>ETA: Oh my god I was completely remiss in thanking <b>serenityfails</b>, beta extraordinaire, for once again lending their eyes and giving their encouragement and helping me polish this up.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I don’t want to talk about it.”</p><p>MacCready shoulders out of the elevator as soon as the doors roll back. Clumps of melting snow scatter to the floor from his boots and the brim of his hat. He kicks his foot to shake the last of it free without thinking. Pain rips across his thigh, sudden and sharp, and he stumbles with a loud hiss into the bar counter in front of him. A plate rattles to the floor with a loud clang. He swallows down a curse, gritting his teeth, and pulls himself back upright. </p><p>“Then we won’t talk about it.”</p><p>MacCready hears Deacon’s footsteps stop behind him. He lifts his head, glaring at a row of novelty cups branded <i>Fizztop Grille, Nuka World</i> he can see lining a shelf across the bar from him. His arm tingles as he waits to feel Deacon’s hands try to steady him, his muscles tensed to shove them away the moment they land. </p><p>But they don’t come. Deacon strolls past him and circles behind the counter without another glance. He sets a hand on the corner and leans his head down to look over the shelves below. MacCready looks away, then hobbles toward the nearest bright turquoise bar stool, breath hitching with every awkward bit of pressure that jostles too much. He slumps down hard. Then he grabs the brim of his hat and yanks it off his head, throwing it on the counter, just for something to throw.</p><p>Stupid. Stupid, <i>stupid</i> mistake, stupid bullsh—crappy mansion, stupid idiot Gunner that brought them there in the first place. </p><p>It should have been an easy day. This is the last trip to Nuka World Anthony and Preston are dragging them on for a while, at least until the snow lets up. Stupid time of year to be snowing, anyway. It never snowed in April back in the Capital Wasteland. </p><p>It’s been quiet, for the most part, now that the raiders are gone. And god, seeing those bastards put down hard by the full vanguard of the Minutemen’s army had almost made the month of slogging through every endless, sprawling, bug-or-robot-or-fricking-mutated-gorilla-infested section of the park worth it. Almost. Since then, it’s been the occasional mirelurk wandering up from the river, or a dog pack scrounging around the trash cans at the old bus stops. Maybe a feral ambling out from some corner of the kiddie land they hadn’t quite cleared out, just to spice things up. Easy things, all in all. Things they can pick off from a distance. Things that make sense. </p><p>He’s not ready to add ghosts to the list. </p><p>Something hits the counter in front of him, and he startles, head snapping up. It’s a hot plate. The coils look a little singed, and it’s caked with dust, but it’s not as rust-eaten as most he’s seen rotting in the ruined kitchens of broken houses or old cafes. Deacon blows the dust away and then kneels back out of sight, taking the power cord with him. True to his word, he stays quiet. MacCready hates it.</p><p>A little red light blinks on at the front of the hot plate, and it beeps. Deacon pulls himself back up, grunting quietly. He steps back, and by the way his head swivels, MacCready assumes he’s surveying the shelves again. He bends down, and after a moment, a pile of cloth napkins with the same <i>Fizztop Grille</i> branding on them flops down on the counter, followed by a hefty metal carafe. Then a can of purified water and a thin block of soap, these from Deacon’s pack, slumped somewhere on the floor near his feet. </p><p>“What are you doing?” MacCready finally grumbles. </p><p>He doesn’t need to ask. He can figure it out. Wasn’t the most sterile attic he’d gone and gotten himself injured in. And they’d used up the antiseptic treating the wounded Minutemen. They’re still waiting on another shipment to forge its way through the snow. Hot water and soap is the next best thing. But the silence is starting to grate. He wants something to focus on that isn’t the searing pain in his thigh, or the way Deacon’s t-shirt, wrapped tight around the wound and cinched there with MacCready’s ammo belts, scrapes at the irritated edges of his skin when he shifts. Or the way the kid smiling her blank smile on the poster across the room from him looks just like— </p><p>Deacon spins the hot plate to face him and sets the carafe on top of it. “I’m making a bomb. Figured when you’re feeling up to it, we can just jog back over and light the place up.” </p><p>MacCready narrows his eyes, and tries to find Deacon’s under the shaded lenses of his sunglasses. He sounds like he always does. He looks like he always does. No hint of a grin on his lips, no teasing flick of his eyebrows. Nothing. And that annoys MacCready more. Because if he can’t see it, it’s buried under that stupid, stone-set poker face he can never fu—fricking read when he wants to. </p><p>He knows Deacon’s laughing at him. Somewhere, <i>somewhere</i> underneath it all. MacCready knows it. </p><p>“Yeah, fine, laugh it up,” MacCready says, wrenching his eyes away to glare at the snow cascading past the windows. “It’s fu—freaking hilarious.” </p><p>“Okay, too soon. Got it,” Deacon says with a sigh. MacCready scowls, and doesn’t look back. </p><p>God, his leg <i>hurts</i>. The stimpak they’d given him on the fire escape afterward stopped the worst of the bleeding, and the sheer adrenaline of running out of the place blocked the worst of the pain. That carried him nearly to Nuka World’s front gate, just before the snow started. Well, that and Deacon, arm tight around MacCready’s back to take his weight, which just made it even more embarrassing. The adrenaline’s definitely gone now. And he needs to think about something else. That’s what Deacon’s usually good for. MacCready’s eyes dart around the room, skirting that kid on the poster and landing back on the windows.</p><p>It’s been awhile since they’ve even been back to this place. Not since before the Great De-Raidering, as Deacon likes to call it. Some work had gone into sealing up the open balcony, at least, so it’s not snowing right into the room. Someone had cleared out the weird mannequins hovering by the bed, too. The heck kind of decorating was that supposed to be, anyway? All right, so it was better than blood-spattered cages or… god, <i>feral skin</i> couches. Just the memory turns his stomach. <i>Raiders</i>, man. He scowls again and shifts on the stool, inhaling sharply through his nose when the pain flares.</p><p>They keep mostly to the fledgling farm on the east side when they come to Nuka World now. Anthony never likes staying in the heart of Raider Central, even without the raiders, and MacCready doesn’t blame him. Still, it only made sense to stop here now instead of pushing another half an hour with this stupid gash in his leg and a snowstorm brewing. Deacon had tried to stop them at the old first aid station on the main strip, but MacCready dragged himself on. It was still full of Minutemen. He didn’t want their eyes on him. </p><p>Anthony and Preston had gone on to the settlement without them to give the all clear. They’d probably reached it by now. <i>No, don’t worry, guys, those strange lights the caravan guard saw at that weird mystery mansion? Totally fine, nothing to worry about. No raiders trying to get back in the park. Just a bunch of props and booby traps and one dumb Gunner. Oh, and MacCready thinks he saw a ghost, but don’t worry about it. He just saw one of the spotlights and tore his leg to shreds running away from it. He’ll get over it.</i> </p><p>“Still can’t believe Anthony called that place a date spot,” Deacon says. MacCready doesn’t look back, but drops his eyes to the edge of the counter, close enough to catch Deacon’s blurry shape in his peripheral. He hears the top of the carafe lift, sees a flash of movement, then hears it settle back again. Deacon mumbles, “I don’t know what kind of dates <i>he’s</i> going on.”</p><p>MacCready doesn’t answer. He’d laughed, at the time. Looked up at the dead vines clinging to the mansion’s walls and said, “Wait, wait, so you drag your date here and scare them on purpose?” </p><p>Anthony had laughed, too, as he slung an arm around Preston’s neck. “Yeah, you know, to get them to cling to you. Stupid teenage shit.” </p><p>“That <i>is</i> stupid.” That wasn’t what he was doing as a teenager. Plenty of things to scare you out in the wasteland without needing to make up some ghost story. And someone clinging to you about it just makes it harder to aim. “What do you need to trick them for if you’re already on a date?” </p><p>Anthony had laughed again, shaking his head a little. “Well, when you put it like that...” </p><p>“Old World people were so weird. Uh, no offense.” MacCready threw Anthony a sheepish glance, but he’d just smiled, and said something about things being different back then, like he always does. And then Deacon had pulled MacCready into his side by the waist and planted a loud kiss on his cheek, right in front of the ticket robot. MacCready had shoved him off even as he was fighting down a smile. </p><p>It’d started off so well. </p><p>MacCready hears Deacon slide the carafe off the hot plate, and finally looks over. Steam curls up from under the top, and out of the spout. Deacon opens it and drops one of the napkins inside, letting it soak for a moment. Then he fishes it back out with a ladle MacCready hadn’t noticed before, waiting on the counter. He squeezes it out, wincing a little at the heat, and then rolls the soap through it a few times. </p><p>“All right, Bobby, let’s see the damage.” </p><p>MacCready’s gaze flicks up, then down to his leg, then back. He lifts his hand. “I can do it, you don’t have to—”</p><p>“Nope, I sure don’t,” Deacon says, holding the rag away as he rounds the counter. “But I really had my heart set on that Boyfriend of the Year award, and I’ve got a lot of ground to cover if I want to beat Preston.” </p><p>Deacon kneels next to the stool, pulling off his sunglasses and laying them next to MacCready’s hand on the counter. He looks up at him from the floor, expectant, and MacCready can’t help it. The smallest sliver of a smile tugs at his lips, the kind only Deacon would really notice. Deacon grins like it’s some kind of victory. </p><p>“There he is,” he says. Deacon starts undoing the buckle of the first ammo belt with one hand, the sort of sight MacCready usually finds captivating. Instead, MacCready presses his forehead into his hand and blows out a breath, smothering the smile. </p><p>“I’m not joking this away,” he says. He feels the belt slip free, and then the gentle pressure of Deacon working at the other one. </p><p>“I know,” Deacon says, a little quieter. He sounds sincere. “But we’re not talking about it, remember?” </p><p>The second belt loosens, and Deacon drops it to the floor on top of the other. He carefully pries back the sticky t-shirt, and MacCready hisses again as he does. Deacon had tied it there after they’d gotten MacCready out onto the fire escape, yanking out the first thing his hand landed on as he reached into his pack while Preston plied MacCready with a stimpak. The shirt’s a ruin, now, stained deeply red. Deacon hardly even blinks at it, just drops it on the floor and leans closer. </p><p>He winces. “Jesus.” </p><p>MacCready looks down. It’s a nasty, jagged line across half his thigh, his pants ripped open around it and stained all the way down the leg with blood. The cut itself isn’t deep enough to touch the muscle, but it’s deep, the edges carved uneven and ragged, with bits of the torn fabric of his trousers clinging to the broken skin. Deacon tugs gently at the rip, and MacCready inhales sharply again. </p><p>“Fucking shit,” he grinds out. He whips his head over toward Deacon. “Don’t say a word. I earned that slip.” </p><p>“I vote free pass for the day,” Deacon says, holding a hand up. He looks over the wound and grimaces again. “Think you can stand long enough for us to get these off?”</p><p>MacCready glowers at him. Deacon raises his chin and gives him a flat look right back. “I can’t clean it with your shredded pants in the way, genius.” </p><p>MacCready looks away. He pushes himself unsteadily to his feet, and starts undoing the belt around his waist. The movement hurts, but he pushes through it. </p><p>“Do you want help?” Deacon looks up at him. </p><p>“I’m fine,” MacCready says, probably sharper than he needs to. Deacon tosses his hands and waits. </p><p>MacCready’s coat loosens around his chest as the belt comes free. He unbuttons it and tosses it aside while he’s at it, and his wet scarf with it. He starts to lean down to get his thigh pouch, then grunts and rears back when it pulls at his wound. He huffs a breath through his nose. </p><p>“I can’t—” He gestures at the pouch. He closes his eyes and presses his mouth into a line. “I—need you. To get it.” </p><p>Deacon raises his eyebrows a little but sits up and reaches for him. He keeps his touch light, but it’s warm. MacCready can feel it through the cloth. Together they eventually get MacCready’s pants down to his knees, and he slumps down on the stool again. </p><p>“This is going to sting,” Deacon says, lifting the rag. </p><p>“Just do it,” MacCready says. </p><p>The first pass comes on the far edge of the gash. MacCready slams his fist down on the counter, rattling the hot plate. He tries to keep the groan behind his teeth. </p><p>“Sorry,” Deacon says, face contorting a little in sympathy. He keeps the rag moving, and the sting of the soap is sharp, but MacCready can tell he’s trying not to press down too hard. Even still, MacCready scrabbles to grip the edge of the counter. He clenches his jaw hard enough that he half-expects to feel a tooth cracking. He swallows down another groan. </p><p>“So, that Gunner,” Deacon says as he works, and MacCready knows three words in that he’s trying to distract him again. He hates that Deacon’s so much better at it than he is on his own. “Friend of yours?” </p><p>“Knew him,” MacCready says, sounding strangled even to his own ears. “He was in—agh, <i>shit</i>—the same company.” </p><p>“Oh, damn,” Deacon says, glancing up at him, “I didn’t actually think you’d say yes.”</p><p>MacCready rides out another wave of pain as Deacon makes another swipe, then forces out, “We talked, sometimes. <i>Ah, ah, fuck.</i> He… hated them as much… <i>agh</i>... as I did. Ran off… before I could.” </p><p>Zachariah had been in with Winlock and Barnes awhile before MacCready joined up. He was a decent marksman, and he liked to fiddle with traps. Got some kind of weird thrill out of it. He’d shown MacCready a thing or two about setting them, skills he clung to once he struck out on his own, before he settled into the Third Rail. But aside from grumbling over shared cigarettes about the latest orders pissing them off, that was about as far as it went. </p><p>“Well, hell, maybe we should’ve sent you in first instead of Anthony,” Deacon says. </p><p>“It’s not like—<i>ouch</i>—we were friends.” </p><p>Deacon nods. He shifts his hand to grip MacCready’s inner thigh and hold it steady. His hands are so warm. Familiar. It's grounding, and MacCready wants to stay angry about it, but there’s a small part of him that just wants to hold on, press his palm down over the back of Deacon’s hand and keep it there.</p><p>The rag is blotched bright red by the time Deacon finishes. MacCready catches sight of it as Deacon pulls it back. Then Deacon leans in to examine the cut again. He hasn’t moved his hand. </p><p>“We really should stitch this, Bobby,” he says, looking up. “Stimpak’s only going to do so much.”</p><p>MacCready growls through his teeth. Stitches mean he’s out of commission. Too easy to rip them back open running settlement calls. As if he could even run like this. “God dammit. Stupid <i>fucking</i> ghost.” </p><p>His head shoots up the moment it’s out. Deacon looks up at him, a look MacCready can’t read. His lips part.</p><p>MacCready lifts a finger. “Don’t. Okay? Just don’t. I heard you guys the first ten times you laughed at me for getting jumpy in there. Fine, I was freaking jumpy. But I know what I saw in that attic. So fuck off.” </p><p>He wishes he could move. He wishes he could push off this stool and out of Deacon’s reach and away from Deacon’s stupid inscrutable face. He wishes they weren’t having this conversation with his pants around his knees. He scowls and looks away again, tightening his grip on the counter until his knuckles go white. </p><p>Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Deacon’s head move. Softly, he says, “Hey.” </p><p>“Don’t,” MacCready says again. He feels like he’s ten years old, arguing with one of the older kids in Little Lamplight about a hunting patrol or something. It makes the back of his neck go hot, a flush he feels all the way to the tops of his ears, and he hates that, too. He knows Deacon can see it. </p><p>He fixes his gaze on the desk across from them, on the pale green typewriter at its edge. It’s the same color her dress was. The… thing. The ghost. He shuts his eyes. He doesn’t want to think about it. </p><p>“Bobby, look at me.” </p><p>“I’m done talking about it.” MacCready opens his eyes and glares at the lantern on the desk’s corner instead. </p><p>“MacCready.” </p><p>MacCready’s nostrils flare. He finally relents, squaring his shoulders and turning the glare on Deacon. He falters at the look he finds waiting for him, serious and worried and… and if he isn’t wrong, a little hurt. The stone face is long gone. Deacon’s voice is still quiet as he says, “You think I don’t believe you? Is that what all this is about?”</p><p>MacCready’s shoulders rise again, defensive. “Of course you don’t. You laughed so hard you almost smacked into that table when Anthony said, ‘Ooh, what if it’s haunted?’” His voice drops into an exaggerated and pale imitation of Anthony’s. “And you guys wouldn’t stop giving me crap about jumping when that first door swung open by itself.”</p><p>“That was different—”</p><p>“Yeah, whatever,” MacCready says. He gestures at his leg. “Look, are we doing this, or not?” </p><p>Deacon sighs. He still hasn’t let go of MacCready’s thigh, and MacCready can’t shake him off without it hurting. He could just reach down and pull his hand off, but… but he doesn’t. </p><p>“Bobby, I was there, remember?” Deacon says. “I wasn’t that far behind you, coming up to the attic.” </p><p>MacCready scowls again. “Yeah, yeah, you’re gonna tell me nothing was there, I jumped at a shadow, crashed into that stupid shelf and took a sawblade to the thigh because I’m an idiot. Can we skip this and—”</p><p>“Will you please let me finish?” Deacon snaps. </p><p>That actually does shut MacCready up. Deacon doesn’t snap. Deacon doesn’t do much past throwing bitingly snide comments until one actually hits the mark. When MacCready looks back at him, he’s frowning, and his eyes are bright and wide. MacCready closes his mouth.</p><p>“It doesn’t matter that I didn’t see anything,” Deacon says, lowering his voice again. “MacCready, you got up off that floor gushing blood and you grabbed me like I was going to die if you didn’t get me out. You think by now I don’t know the difference between that and you getting spooked by a mechanical door?” </p><p>MacCready blinks down at him, surprised, and splutters, “I—didn’t know if it was going to—to come after us, I—I had to get you—get us out.” </p><p>Deacon swallows and drops his gaze. “Yeah, see, that’s what I'm talking about. I don’t know what you saw. But you saw <i>something</i>.” </p><p>MacCready closes his eyes again. He feels his shoulders begin to droop, the anger holding them up slowly crumpling. He bites the inside of his cheek. “I saw a kid. A little girl. Real as anything. Just a dead kid. She disappeared into the wall.” </p><p>He opens his eyes when he hears a soft rustling. Deacon’s pulled himself back to his feet. His hand, still a little damp from the rag, slides around the back of MacCready’s neck, the other wrapping around his arm, right below his shoulder. </p><p>“Bobby,” he says, his voice gentle, and MacCready feels the last of his anger dissolve into nothing. He reaches for Deacon, burying his fingers in the bulk of Deacon’s grey sweater. He hadn’t even noticed him take off his coat. </p><p>“So stupid,” MacCready mumbles. “It was probably that evil psycho kid, right? If it was even real. Just… just knowing I was looking at a dead fucking—freaking kid… this is so <i>stupid.</i>.”</p><p>It is. Duncan’s fine. He’s better than ever, according to Joseph’s letters, and Joseph wouldn’t lie to him if the medicine stopped working, if Duncan started getting sick again. Doesn’t stop MacCready from worrying about it. Doesn’t stop him from dreaming about those awful boils on Duncan’s arms, his chest, his face. And no matter how many times he tells himself Duncan’s fine, that he’s healthy, that when the snow thaws and the sun warms up and he and Deacon make the long trip down, he’s not going to find Duncan dead in his bed… it never stops hovering in the back of his mind.</p><p>“Hey,” Deacon says again as he strokes his thumb over MacCready’s neck. “It’s okay.” </p><p>MacCready balls his fists tighter in Deacon’s sweater and tugs. He swings his good leg to the side until Deacon can stand between his knees, and then he leans his forehead against Deacon’s chest. Deacon lets go of his arm and settles a hand in his hair instead, carding through it. </p><p>“I’m sorry,” MacCready mumbles to the knit of the sweater. “I didn’t think you’d—”</p><p>“I get it,” Deacon says. He strokes MacCready’s hair for a moment, then says, “Like I said, stupid place for a date anyhow.” </p><p>A small smile finally cracks through. MacCready lifts his head, and lets Deacon see it. He relaxes his grip a little, letting his hands slide to the small of Deacon’s back, where he can feel the imprint of Deliverer under Deacon’s waistband. </p><p>“So where would Boyfriend of the Year take me instead?” MacCready says. He can hear how jagged his voice sounds, but Deacon grins at him anyway, taking the olive branch. </p><p>“Play your cards right and maybe you’ll find out,” Deacon says. He squeezes the back of MacCready’s neck. </p><p>MacCready chuckles quietly, and starts to lift his chin as Deacon leans down. MacCready shifts his leg without thinking just before their lips meet, and he chokes off into a groan, grimacing through the sudden flare of pain that lances through his thigh. </p><p>Deacon’s smile fades. He straightens. “Yeah, okay, stimpak and then we need to get that stitched and wrapped.” </p><p>He steps out of MacCready’s arms and back around the bar. MacCready hears him rummaging through his pack. </p><p>“You’ve… done this before, right?” MacCready says, craning his neck to see over the counter. “Stitched someone up?”</p><p>Deacon’s head bobs into view. “I sewed up a hole in my sock once.” MacCready’s eyes widen, and the corner of Deacon’s mouth slowly lifts. “Relax, I’m kidding. “ </p><p>“You’re kidding as in you’ve never even stitched a sock, or—”</p><p>“I have stitched wounds up before, love, I promise.” Deacon stands, lifting up his little first aid kit. MacCready falters at the pet name, hoping his ears aren’t turning pink. How does it <i>still</i> catch him off guard? </p><p>As he comes back around the bar, Deacon adds, “Even helped patch up Glory, once.”</p><p>“Carrington let you do that? <i>Glory</i> let you do that?” </p><p>“Carrington was a little busy stopping someone else from bleeding out at the time,” Deacon says, kneeling again at MacCready’s side. “And I’ve got—well, I’ve trained myself to… uh, have steady hands.” He ripples his fingers.</p><p>MacCready looks down at him for a moment. Deacon opens up the kit and starts moving things around. MacCready reaches out and grabs his shoulder. Deacon looks up quickly. </p><p>“I just—” MacCready says, then lets out a breath. “Thank you.” </p><p>Deacon raises his eyebrows. “Don’t thank me yet, I’ve still got to—”</p><p>“Deacon.” </p><p>Deacon goes quiet. He turns his head a little, and reaches up to wrap his fingers around MacCready’s wrist. He tugs it up until he can press a firm kiss to the back of MacCready’s hand. “Listen, if you believe one thing about me? Let it be that I’m always in your corner.” </p><p>He gives MacCready a little smile that makes that heat on the back of MacCready’s neck a whole lot worse. Well <i>now</i> he’s distracted. Then Deacon lets go of his hand and turns back to the kit, bending his head down. MacCready listens to the soft clatter for a moment. </p><p>“All right, ready?” </p><p>Deacon turns his head back around, and he’s wearing the novelty glasses from that weird woman that used to hang out on the main strip, blathering on about Nuka Cola. Deacon holds up the stimpak and waggles his eyebrows. </p><p>MacCready glares at him. “Don’t come near me with that thing until you take those off.” </p><p>“Bobby, these are a very important component—”</p><p>“Deacon, I’m serious, take them off.” </p><p>“But how else am I supposed to see any <i>hidden</i> dangers?” Deacon flicks his eyebrows up again, still grinning. “Get it? Because these things find hidden—”</p><p>“I hate you,” MacCready says, fighting off a grin of his own. “I really, really hate you.” </p><p>“Is that any way to talk to a man with a needle in his hand?” </p><p>MacCready holds up his hands, hunching forward over the wound. “Deacon, I swear to god—”</p><p>Deacon finally cracks and starts to laugh, holding the stimpak away so he doesn’t accidentally stick himself. He pulls off the glasses and tosses them to the floor, shoulders shaking. MacCready slowly lowers his hands and stops fighting off that smile of his own. Something loosens and warms in his chest as he watches Deacon laugh, and he feels, for the first time in hours, like he can breathe.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Blatant re-purposing of affinity dialogue, go! Anyway, Happy Holidays to everyone, and Happy Birthday once again to <b>adventuresofmeghatron</b>. Please go check out her amazing fics. And if you want to say hey, I'm @electricshoebox on tumblr and @galaxiesgone on twitter.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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